What the Wind Carries
by Missfyre
Summary: When Alfred F. Jones stumbles into a group of Chanters – people who practice magic – and is captured, he discovers that people are all the same, they're just all being told different lies. Eventual USUK.
1. Prologue

A/N: Errr... well, this is the prologue, obviously, and it's a bit short, I confess, but that's just fine, right? I'll upload the first chapter at the same time, yeah? I hope to be consistent, so hopefully updates are once a week.

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

A small child stood in the field, the wind blowing his hair around. His eyes were wide as he looked at the bushes, a pattern of green and red.

"Nice, isn't it?" Another boy said beside him, holding his hand. The smaller of the two looked up and nodded, smiling. "What are those?" he said as he pointed to the red flowers in the green leaves. The older one looked at them and smiled.

"Come on, let's get a closer look, Alfie," the older one said. He walked towards the bushes, taking Alfie by the hand to look at the flowers. Alfie's eyes widened as he saw the ruby red blossoms up close. Arthur picked a handful, handling them carefully.

"Ooh, they're pretty, Arthur!" Alfie exclaimed as Arthur handed him a flower and he twirled it in his hand, 'ooh'-ing and 'aah'-ing as he did so, before suddenly dropping the flower and sucking on his thumb. "Be careful! These are roses," Arthur said and gestured at the flowers. "They're nice-looking, but they have thorns. They can hurt you." He picked the rose up and showed Alfie the thorns. "Does it hurt?" he asked softly.

The small boy nodded, tears in his eyes. "Owie," he said. "I don't like owies." Arthur kneeled down and took Alfie's hand, inspecting the wound. "There, there," he murmured softly. "I'll make it better."

Arthur touched the wound with his finger, his eyes closed. For a moment, something like green strings seemed to wrap around Alfie's finger before dissolving. When he lifted it, the cut was gone. Alfie looked at him with wonder in his blue eyes, now wide and curious.

"Wow! How did you do that?" Alfie asked, looking at his newly healed finger as if it was a precious gem. "It's a secret," Arthur answered. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

Alfie cocked his head sideways. "But why? It's cool, and I'm sure people want to hear about it." Arthur answered, "Because then your father won't let me play with you anymore." His little friend nodded enthusiastically. "Okay! I won't tell! It's our secret, right? Our special secret!"

Arthur smiled at him. "Now come on, I'll take you home. You've been outside too long, your dad's going to be worried if you get sick. It's cold out." "Won't get sick!" Alfie said indignantly, shaking his head. "I'll be fine!" Arthur laughed but went ahead anyway, and the other boy ran to catch up. "Can we play again tomorrow?" he asked, looking up.

Arthur opened his mouth, and then closed it again. "Of course," he said, and Alfie smiled. He stopped walking, realizing that he was in front of Alfie's house, freshly painted red, like the roses they just saw, like the blood when Alfie pricked his hand on a cunning thorn.. "Well, here's your house. See you tomorrow, Alfie."

Alfie ran inside, yelling "Tomorrow! Tomorrow!" and Arthur watched him go with a sad smile.

Bonds always made leaving harder.


	2. Down the Rabbit Hole

A/N: This is the first chapter, yeah. I hope you guys enjoy reading it (a.k.a. it doesn't suck too much, haha).

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter I: Down the Rabbit Hole (Or Something Much Worse)

The reason Alfred F. Jones liked walks was that they often cleared his head. Inside the bases, it was all steel and concrete and boring, boring, boring. Even all the technology got boring after a while. He loved the forests, the fallen leaves and the little squirrels scuttling around.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air. It smelled like pinecones, trickling brooks and the earth. He kept walking, his boots crunching on the forest floor. Looking around, he felt the lack of noise was something he didn't really like, but everything else was great. Alfred was a person who liked people around him, but at times like these being alone was fine too.

He had taken with him a knife and his gun, in order to protect himself if one of the Chanters showed up. The Chanters were savages in black cloaks, chanting in a strange language, disregarding laws of nature. He was taught to hate them, to either run or kill on sight.

Running was usually easier, as the Chanters seemed to have odd powers helping them during battle, mysterious weapons, sometimes invisible.

Some older friends of his said that Chanters and normal people used to live together, until a man, whom everyone called the Blacksmith, separated them because the Chanters were doing unforgivable things. There were tales of Chanters killing innocent people, just to show they could.

They were to eradicate all Chanters or the world would fall into chaos, he said. Eventually, the Chanters hid away from the world, what was left of them coming together to hide.

They were called Chanters because they well, _chanted_. They chanted strange words to summon mysterious powers to aid them in battle or whatever they did. It was a skill most people were scared of, and even now they were still scared, although Chanter sightings were reportedly rare.

He looked up as a bluebird flew ahead, listening for the calls of animals. _I should stop thinking…_ he thought to himself. Wasn't the point of walking to clear his head, stop thinking? He shook the thoughts away and continued walking, adjusting his glasses as they slid down his nose.

Alfred stopped walking. In front of him was a large rock wall, a small waterfall tumbling down, but it didn't seem… convincing for some reason. The wall of rock seemed like it was flickering, which was odd since wall of rocks don't flicker.

He reached out and realized that his hand could go through the wall of rock like if he tried to stick it in goop. A little farther, and a the wall seemed to become less and less solid, the goop-like quality eventually becoming something that was more like a substance between liquid and gas.

He kept on stepping forward, not even thinking about the fact that going through a wall of rock that wasn't actually a wall of rock (chances are it was conjured by a Chanter!) might actually be _dangerous_.

And then, suddenly, he just lost his footing. He felt himself falling, but it was like the fall didn't affect him, as in his hair was still in place, and his glasses didn't move.

When he finally, landed with a _thump_ on the ground, he realized that he had his eyes shut. Opening them warily, he heard voices.

_"Well, do you think we should just kill him here?_"

"_No, England would want to know about this…"_

Over him, he saw two figures standing over him. One of them had a sinister grin on his face. "Well, well. What do we have here?"

Alfred reached for his gun. "Oh no you don't," the sneering man said, and suddenly ropes had bound his hands. "Think you can shoot me, huh?" he said. He waved his hand, and Alfred's weapons were in his hands. "Oi! Hungary! Guess what I've got!"

"What _is_ it, Prussia? I don't have time for your games!" Another voice, this time female, shouted back. "I swear it's not a game! Netted a non-believer here!" At this, a second figure appeared, long hair cascading down her shoulders.

"I thought we set the borders?" the girl known as Hungary muttered. The other one appeared to shrug. "Dunno. Guess they weren't strong enough, then." Both of them leant down a bit, so Alfred could see their faces. The man (Prussia, was it?) had red eyes, fiery and sinister, and silvery hair. The woman had brown hair and green eyes, like the scales of a serpent. Green eyes, the trademark of a Chanter from birth.

"Well, we'll just have to take him to England, I guess," the red-eyed one said. "Get up, you," he commanded. Alfred didn't get up. "You know you shouldn't waste your words," the girl with the green eyes (evil green eyes, cold and cruel) said. She used her finger to write something in the air, and then opened her palm and thrust it towards Alfred.

He felt something force him to stand up, and noted how she didn't even speak; could a Chanter use her powers without chanting?

"Well, we haven't got all day, let's take him back," Prussia said. "And the borders?" Hungary questioned, shooting him a look. "We can leave 'em for a while. It'll be okay." Hungary looked doubtful but followed Prussia anyway, dragging Alfred along.

He wriggled to get away, but her grip was iron-like and he soon stopped, because it was painful to keep moving. Prussia turned and he could see all of his face again, and then something clicked in the back of Alfred's head. "Hey, do you know someone called Lud-" but he was cut off when Hungary tightened her grip even more, and he grimaced, but he persisted.

"You look like this Gilbert guy-" This time, he stopped when he felt his own blade being pressed onto his neck. "Shut up," Hungary growled, and Alfred decided not to say anything. But he saw that ahead, Prussia had stopped in his tracks.

"He-" Alfred never got to say more than one word when he felt a sharp pain. Hungary had pressed the knife a bit harder and he felt his blood trickle down. "Hey, you can't kill me, you have to take me to that England dude first… You know, take me to your leader and stuff?"

"That's what we're obligated to do, but if you continue to be a nuisance then I won't hesitate to kill you, get rid of your body and pretend this never happened," Hungary growled, with even more malice in her voice now. "F-fine, fine, I'll shut up," he said. "Good."

They kept walking until they reached a very large cleaning, with more people in black cloaks running around and about. He glimpsed a few of their faces but looked away at once; all of their eyes seemed to glare daggers at him.

"Hey, Ireland!" Prussia shouted, and a girl turned around, looking slightly annoyed. "What is it, Prussia?" she asked in an irritable sort of voice. "You seen England? I got him some meat to butcher!"

Alfred did _not_ like to be called 'some meat to butcher'. "Hey, I'm right here, you know!" he called out to Prussia. He turned around, a sneer on his face. Alfred wanted nothing more than to carve that sneer off his face with his knife, but unfortunately Hungary was holding it right now. "I know," Prussia said.

The girl called Ireland, her unruly red hair sticking out from under her hood, sighed. Alfred noted that she had pretty thick eyebrows for a girl. "Probably somewhere in our place," she said. Hungary and Prussia nodded, and they dragged Alfred along to what looked like a small house with a wooden door. The curtains were drawn, but he could see light coming through.

Hungary stepped forward and rapped her knuckles on the door. "England! We found something!" Alfred groaned. "First 'some meat to butcher' and now 'something'? I'm a _person_, guys!" Hungary shot him a sharp glare and he recoiled. "Sheesh, you guys are so…"

Before he got a chance to finish his sentence, the door opened and a man, shorter than he was, stepped out. The first thing he noticed was that he had thick eyebrows, like Ireland. He narrowed his green eyes (his were _startlingly_ green, almost glowing in fact) and said, "How did you get here?"

Alfred looked at him and realized this person's face reminded him of something, someone he knew, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He never knew anyone called England, after all. "Well, I sorta went through this fake rock wall and fell, and then I landed on the ground and met these two," he said and gestured to Hungary and Prussia, and then continued, "who have been completely rude to me so far, by the way."

The man with the glowing eyes narrowed them even more, so that it looked like he was squinting. "Call everyone out to the center, Prussia," he said. He then looked at Hungary and said, "You'll help me take him there." She nodded, and Prussia set off to god-knows-where, but the leader (who, due to lack of a name so far, Alfred decided to dub 'Eyebrows') got out and joined Hungary, and they led him back to the center of the clearing.

In about eight seconds, a crowd of people had assembled, whispering as they saw him. Some of them glared at him with hate in their eyes. "Who was in charge of the barriers today?" Eyebrows barked. "I did, England," a quiet but firm voice said. _So this is England,_ Alfred mused, glancing at Eyebrows. Pretty short for a leader.

When the owner of the voice, a small girl, walked through the crowd to face him, England's expression softened. "Oh, that's okay, Liechtenstein, it's only your first time. Why don't you go ask your brother for some tips? I reckon he can tell you some useful things," he said. "Right. Thanks, England," the girl said and nodded.

England then turned towards him, and his lip curled in an expression of distaste. "What are _you_ doing here, then?" he said. Alfred said defensively, "I told you, it was an accident!" Prussia cackled (apparently he was somewhere in front) as he said this. "What?" Alfred asked, annoyed. "Knowing you people, you're probably a scout. Check him for tracking devices, England," Prussia said.

"Wha- I'm not-" Alfred tried to defend himself, but England was already doing the writing-in-the-air-with-your-finger thing and then the opening-your-palm-and-thrusting-it-for-no-reason thing. "No tracking devices, Prussia," England concluded.

Prussia shrugged. "Good, then. So what're we gonna do with him?" the red-eyed man said and turned towards the crowd. "It is better if we just get rid of him, no?" a deceptively childish voice said. Alfred saw that the source of this voice was a large man with light hair, and instead of a cloak he wore a scarf. He had violet eyes, not green, and Alfred could tell that he wasn't born a Chanter. Somehow, his appearance seemed to ring a bell as well.

"I agree with my brother," another voice, one that gave him goosebumps, said fervently. The owner of this voice was a beautiful girl with icy, sharp blue eyes and an expression that could freeze hell over. She clung onto the violet-eyed man's arm, and his expression changed to one of discomfort.

"I disagree with Belarus and Russia," another voice, this time male, piped up. He was a boy with calm blue eyes and a barrette on his pale hair. "I think we should keep him and see if we can get some information out of him," he said. Alfred grimaced at this. 'Keep him'? What was he, a dog? Well, at least this one's voting for him to _not_ get killed.

Another voice, a heavier female one, Ireland, said, "I agree with Norway." She stepped forward and scrutinized Alfred. "I say we can keep him prisoner and see what happens. He may prove useful should the need arise."

"I say we put some bullets through his head," another voice said. He was a boy who looked a bit like the small girl earlier, and Alfred felt a bullet whiz past him, probably a warning shot.

"No, Switzerland, we should just feed him England's cooking!" "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" "We should probably lock him up!" "We should squeeze information out of him! Torture, I say!" "What about make him a test subject for new spells?"

"_Enough, you immature prats_!" England yelled, and even though he shouted in a normal shouting voice (normal volume for shouting, anyway), it sounded much louder and echoed across the clearing. He cleared his throat as everybody fell silent.

"Well, I agree with Ireland," England said. "Let's just keep him prisoner and try to squeeze out what information we can. We can also keep him as leverage." Ireland grinned at this. The man with the scarf smiled, although his eyes were icier now. "I'm sorry about denying you your fun, Russia, but he can be useful," Ireland reasoned.

"No this is alright," Russia said. "If you need someone to help you get the information out, I can do it, yes?" England nodded at this and turned towards the crowd. "Belgium, can you make him a room to stay in?" he asked as he turned to a girl with short, wavy blond hair. "Eh, sure," Belgium said and shrugged her shoulders. She gestured at Alfred to follow her.

"Come on, you, I'll get you a place to sleep." He followed her, glancing back to the crowd of black-clad people. _Okay, so first thing to do: devise an escape plan._


	3. Prisoner's Shame, Captor's Glory

A/N: I was planning to hold this off until at least Thursday but I couldn't do it, hurr durr. orz I can't keep the promises I make to myself. I've written up quite a few chapters already, and I hate how when I try to spell 'patronising', Microsoft Word keeps changing it to 'patronizing'. Oh well. That's fine, I guess?

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter II: Prisoner's Shame, Captor's Glory

After some waving of hands and some odd material appearing out of nowhere, they were soon in front of a small house, smaller than the one Alfred visited earlier, probably with only one room. Belgium opened the door for him and let him in.

"So, here's your place to stay! Don't bother to try to get out without my or England's permission, you won't succeed," she said with a grin. Alfred nodded numbly, feeling everything suddenly set in. He was a prisoner! Of the Chanters! Well, _fuck_.

When Belgium left, Alfred collapsed upon the bed. Everything was gray, and there was one window, but it had no latch, couldn't be opened. Not an escape route. There was a grate somewhere near the ceiling, probably for ventilation, but it was too small to crawl through.

So he was stuck here until the Chanters saw fit to release him (probably never) or bring out that Russia dude (probably in five days). A heavy feeling setting in his chest, he walked to the door and tried to open it. Locked from the outside. Oh, okay then. One of the things Alfred was proud of was his insane strength, and now was probably the time to use it. He readied his fist and punched at the door, only to be knocked back by some sort of barrier.

He frowned. A normal door would have broken down by now. This was no normal door, then. That Chanter person called Belgium must've done something to protect it. He began trying to knock down everything in reach, the walls, the bedposts, the window, but still everything stood firm.

"Aargh!" Alfred yelled, frustrated. He faked tearing his hair out, like people did when they were really frustrated in the cartoons. And then he noticed his stomach begin to rumble. Again, he collapsed on the bed and started punching the pillow. _Oh well, at least it's not a jail cell_, he thought.

If only there was some way to communicate with his friends… Wait a minute! Communicate! That's right, a radio would do just fine, if only he could find one… He searched himself, emptying all his pockets, but soon felt deflated again as he realized that he had (stupidly) not brought a communication device with him.

Frustrated, he went down and lay on the bed again, feeling utterly hopeless. Maybe it was all a bad dream, and if he went to sleep it would all go away when he woke up. Yeah, he should do that. He put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, still trying to come up with an escape plan in his head.

* * *

His dreams (nightmares, actually) were filled with red-eyed devils, fake rock walls, and a boy with blond hair, green eyes and those thick eyebrows twirling a rose in his hands.

_"They're nice-looking, but they have thorns… they can hurt you,_" said a voice somewhere in his dreams. When he woke up, the same voice was ringing in his head, but he was too tired to think about it.

Looking around, he found that the bland, gray room was a reality, or otherwise he was still asleep and just hasn't woken up yet. He hoped it was the latter and pinched himself, but when he felt it he cursed himself for trying.

And then he heard his stomach growl. Oh, right. What time was it? Looking out the window, he saw that it was dark already, and he hoped that the Chanters weren't trying to starve him to death. Rubbing his tummy, he muttered a list of foods he wished he had under his breath, and then he heard a knock on the door.

Alfred rushed to open it, and standing in the doorway was England, holding a plate of… a plate of… of whatever _that _was. "What's that?" Alfred asked warily. "It's your dinner, meat loaf and potatoes."

"Doesn't look like it," Alfred said. The green-eyed man on front of him now had an annoyed look on his face. _Oh well, maybe it tastes better than it looks_, he thought, and took the fork and ate some.

"Blech! Dude, I thought you guys weren't going to kill me!" He spluttered, his glasses falling down because he had doubled over in shock and disgust. "What did you say?" England said dangerously, green eyes narrowed again, scowl worsening.

"Who cooked this? Can you tell the chef to jump off a cliff of something?" Alfred said, still retching. England's face went some shades of red before the pieces finally came together in Alfred's head. "You ungrateful brat! I spared your unworthy life, and this is what you do? Starve, then! See if I care!"

"What? Sorry, sorry! I'll eat, I'll eat! Fine!" Alfred said, exasperated. His stomach was probably beating drums and singing karaoke now, and he wanted to make it stop as soon as possible, even if it meant eating that black mess England called food.

He received the plate and closed the door in England's face and heard him yell curses and foul words outside, and Alfred apprehensively took another bite. He regretted his decision immediately. Starving for the night would've been better than this, he decided, but it was too late now.

Swallowing mouthful after mouthful, he winced. The food wasn't tasteless, no. Oh, if _only_ it was tasteless. It was all the flavors that shouldn't be in food mixed together, like England had purposefully tried to make it really bad.

Maybe he did.

When he finally finished, Alfred wanted nothing more than a long drink of water to get the taste off. He opened the door and discovered that England was still there. "Don't you have better things to do? Lead your people and stuff like that?" Alfred asked.

"You can't open the door without Belgium or me present to give you permission. If I want to get the plate back before tomorrow morning, I have to wait for you, don't I?" England answered, taking the plate off Alfred's hands.

As soon as he did so, he walked off, and the door closed by itself. Alfred found he couldn't open it again, and started punching it just to channel his anger. Was this going to happen every day? Oh, he hoped not.

Unfortunately, fate has a way of going against your hopes, and Alfred found himself having to eat England's cooking three times a day. It seemed that the only two people he saw other than himself were England and Belgium, who brought him food and water and all that necessary stuff. His parents and all the others were right, he thought. The Chanters were cruel, heartless and merciless indeed.

Alfred decided that talking would probably be the best way to not go nuts too fast, so he began to try starting conversations with Belgium and England. While Belgium would talk to him as a normal person would (well, except for the occasional snarky comments here and there), England would always ignore him or seek to end the conversation as soon as possible.

A few days into the torture, he finally remembered that no one had asked him his name. Everyone referred to him as 'the prisoner' and addressed him as 'you'. They probably didn't care, but Alfred felt like it was important for them to know. After all, once they heard his name, they would probably shake in their stupid black cloaks!

So one day, as England gave him his plate of black stuff for lunch, Alfred attempted to strike another conversation. "You know, you never asked about my name. It's pretty awesome, you want to know, right?" England merely shot him a look that said 'shut up' and said, "Don't use that word, you sound like Prussia. And no, I don't care what your bleeding name is, why d'you think I would care?"

"What, awesome?" (England groaned at this) Alfred asked. He then said, "Well, anyway, you should know! My name's Alfred F. Jones, and you've probably heard of me and my fearsome exploits." England looked at him thoughtfully and then said, "Never heard of you."

Well, that backfired. England certainly _wasn't_ shaking in his cloak. "At least my name's normal. You're named after a country! So is the rest of your group of freaks!" Alfred said. England twitched at this. "We are _not_ a group of freaks." He glared at Alfred with those startling green eyes and again, he felt a flash of recognition –

_"Arthur! Why are your eyes so green? They look like plants and stuff... Not like they're not nice, they're just... they look like they glow."_

"Were you born with those names or something? Is it a Chanter thing, naming their children like-" but Alfred was cut off when England said, "No, we weren't born with these names," but he didn't elaborate. Alfred grunted.

"Okay, so what happened?"

England glared at him. "Do you honestly think I would tell the likes of you?"

"You can at least stop scowling," Alfred said. "Would it kill you to smile?" England ignored this and yanked Alfred's plate out of his hands instead. "Hey, I'm not finished!" He called out, but England was already walking off.

When Belgium arrived with hot water for him to drink the next night, he asked Belgium about England. "Why is he such an uptight jerk, anyway? He needs to get that stick out of his ass," he said. She answered, "He has a reason for behaving like that. Not to say I _like_ it or anything, it's pretty damn annoying for the rest of us, too, but we understand." Afterwards, her eyes filled with pain and sorrow, and Alfred noticed.

"Why, what happened?" Alfred asked, but Belgium merely gave him a cheerful smile and said, "Oh, it's none of your business, really." Alfred sighed at this. "Really, would it _kill_ anyone to tell me anything?" he said jokingly, but Belgium's reply, a grave 'It might,' was oddly serious.

"Seriously, the way you guys are treating me, it's true what they've always taught me. You guys are savages," he complained. Belgium raised an eyebrow at this. "You're a prisoner, what did you expect? Five-star treatment?" She snorted when she tried to hold in her laughter. "You're lucky England didn't assign Russia to make your room for you. Or Switzerland, for that matter. You'd be dead by now, or at least in serious fucking pain," she said.

"But you guys haven't tried to squeeze any information out of me at all," Alfred reasoned. "What's the point of keeping me?" Belgium sighed and said, "They're waiting for you to crack. That's all I'm telling you."

"Don't you want to change the way I think about you? Make me think you guys are actually decent and stuff?" he said, and Belgium laughed derisively.

"You're naïve, aren't you? There's no _point_ in trying to change that. You were brainwashed by the Blacksmith, that much is a given. And then, you're only one person, and a pretty stupid one at that, how do you expect to change what the _world_ thinks about us? And once we get the info we need out of you, Belarus's going to get involved. If Ireland and Scotland are feeling merciful, it'll be Switzerland instead. If they're feeling particularly nasty, it'll be Russia. None of them are too pleasant," she said.

"Can't you guys think about it a little? Help a fellow human being?" he pleaded, but Belgium just shook her head. "_You_ don't treat us like fellow human beings. If you want change, you better ask England or Wales. They won't give it to you, but they have the power to."

After this, Belgium left, leaving Alfred alone and feeling an ominous truth looming over him. _Once we get the info we need out of you, Belarus's going to get involved._

_Feeling merciful… Switzerland…_

_Particularly nasty… Russia…_

He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts away.

That night, Alfred F. Jones went to sleep with the threat of death hanging above his head.

Blood, screams, a pipe, a gun, a knife, and cruel eyes, violet, green and blue, plagued him in his sleep.


	4. Death of the Fireflies

A/N: Since I'm going on a trip soon, I better put this up now. I can say this is one of my favorites, and it's in England's POV. And more British Isles, :3. It's also pretty long. :D

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter III: Death of the Fireflies

"England? What do you think?" Wales asked, and England snorted. "Absolutely not," he said. "We're not trying this again, Wales." "Why not?" Wales asked. England looked at him as if he were crazy. "Don't you remember… when we…" he trailed off, his hands balling into fists.

Wales was older than England but was barely taller than him; Wales never did eat as much as his siblings because he had more self-control (and yet England was still so short). His hair was a few shades darker than England's, his eyes a bit paler. His hair, although a bit unruly as well, was neater than his brother's and could actually be held down by combing. Like all of the siblings, he had thick eyebrows.

"We've only failed two times, England…" Northern Ireland said, putting his hand on England's arm. He had neatly combed red hair (but some strands still stuck out in several directions), bright green eyes, and a face with so many freckles you would've thought orange was his _skin color_.

England yanked his arm away. "And those two times we failed… don't you remember? How can you do this to me when… _that_ happened?" England said. He turned away from the others. Ireland sighed at him.

"Let's not bring that up," she said, brushing her wild red hair out of her face. "But I do think you're being unfair, England, Jones is more similar to Prussia than the other two, you know?"

"_You_'re being unfair! You don't care about how I feel, do you?" England said, and Wales looked at him with exasperation. "We _do_ care, England, but that was a long time ago, and we should be ready to try again," he murmured. England fell silent and lowered his eyes.

"So how are we to do this?" Northern Ireland questioned, looking at Wales. "I think we shouldn't let on just yet. We should tell him that he is no longer our prisoner, that he is to be treated as a guest," he said. "If he asks why, we tell him so that he can change his mind about us."

"And then?" Ireland asked, raising an eyebrow. "Then, we don't teach him our ways, but we will try everything we can so that he can See, not just Hear. If he asks, we can teach him magic. And when he can, we will make him promise us something," Wales answered.

"What promise?" Scotland said warily. This brother had curly and unruly red hair, like Ireland and Northern Ireland, and eyes that are a bit darker but a more distinct than theirs. He had his legs on the table, which greatly annoyed England.

Wales said, "That he is to keep our secrets. If he even _thinks_ of telling those heathens where we are and what we do, pain will remind him of the consequences. If he tells, then…" he trailed off, a grim look on his face. "So a death threat?" Northern Ireland said quietly. No one answered, but everyone knew the answer.

"Afterwards, we give him a choice, to stay with us or to go back. If he goes back, he can help Lithuania and Poland, as well as Estonia and Latvia," Wales said.

"But _why_ are we doing this? _Why_?" England asked, and everybody turned his or her head. "He might look stupid, but he's pretty good at convincing people," Wales said as he closed his eyes. "We may be able to get him to change at least _some _people's way of looking at us.

The room fell silent again. After a few tense seconds, Scotland decided to break it. "Speakin' of, he looks a mighty lot like that tyke ye used ta play with before we had the Separation by the Blacksmith's Hand, England." England scoffed at this. "Bollocks. The chances of me and Alfie meeting each other again are as minute as the chances that the King will come back to life and fight the bloody Blacksmith," he said.

"Right little ray of sunshine, aren't you," said Wales with a sarcastic smile. A typical comment from the third oldest of them, the one with the most sarcastic sense of humor. England snorted. Ireland and Scotland laughed. Northern Ireland chuckled. The ice was broken.

"Well then," Ireland said airily. "Meeting adjourned."

* * *

After a delicious dinner of Peking duck and dim sum (courtesy of China, of course), England cornered Wales.

"What's your _real_ reason for doing this, Wales? You're not a very good liar," England growled. Wales looked at him with a hard stare. "I wasn't lying," he said and clicked his tongue. "Can't you trust this brother of yours?"

"Have you started working with those hell-sent people of the Blacksmith's now, Wales?" England said, a dangerous edge in his voice. Wales' glare intensified, now burning with anger and disbelief.

"How could you accuse me of such treachery?" Wales asked. "I'm bound – if not by my own beliefs, then by blood – to us, the King's people! You – you need to get over what happened, England! It's all in the past!" he said heatedly.

England glared back at Wales. "I'm not talking about the past, Wales. I'm talking about what is happening _now_. He's one of – one of _them_!" "We can change that," Wales replied, trying to regain his composure. "We can, and we've done so already, remember? We've succeeded more than twice, and they are loyal to us now."

"And how can you guarantee me that he will turn out the same?" England demanded. "Remember Prussia?" Wales asked. "This Jones is more like Prussia than the other one who was with him at the time."

"And when we failed to convince him, remember what was lost?" England said. Wales turned away, feeling his stomach churn at the thought. That cry of pain… England's despairing scream at the sky… the day the earth stood still for the siblings… No, he had not forgotten. As if he could forget.

Wales gulped. "You're straying into the past again, England. That's not what we're talking about." "The past has very much to do with what you have decided," England retorted, and then walked away from his brother, shaking with anger. He looked as if he couldn't bear the mere memory as he turned away, anger, sorrow, guilt, fear and betrayal in his eyes.

As he watched his brother's retreating back, Wales could feel the real answer on the tip of his tongue, about why he had made the decision to accept Alfred and try to convince him to join them. Why he had decided to gamble on their safety.

Wales had always been perceptive. He knew people's feelings, and he could tell what kind of person you are just from the stories he heard or being with you for a short time. If it wasn't for the Separation, he might have become a psychologist. The only thing that might keep him from being one was his temper and his particular habit of making snarky comments at everything people said.

And no matter how much they fought, Wales loved his brother. He loved his brother, but that brother had shut everyone out, pushed them away, years ago. No one has been able to break down the walls. All the smiles England ever gave were dry or sarcastic now. England used to smile with happiness and love and laugh with mirth.

And from the stories Belgium and England told about this Alfred F. Jones, Wales had drawn a conclusion.

_He's the one who can help you move on,_ Wales thought. _And I hope that he can make you open your heart to us again_.

* * *

_"Arthur! You're baaack! I missed you, why didn't you tell me you were going somewhere?" Alfie yelled as he ran towards his friend, hugging him. He was a few years younger but already the same height as Arthur; something Arthur took comfort in as the blue-eyed boy hugged him_

_"Eh?" Alfie looked at him with those innocent blue eyes. "Wh-what's wrong, Arthur? Is-is something wrong?"_

_Even the child could tell that something was wrong. Parts of Arthur's hair were singed, and he looked haggard, tired and worn. His eyes had none of its usual glow; no trace of the usual smile. His face was flushed and his clothes were dirty and torn in several places. He looked like, to put in Alfie's dad's terms, 'he looked like he'd been to hell and back'._

_"What's wrong? Tell me, it's okay… I'm your friend, right?" Alfie said, trying wildly to calm Arthur down. His dad said that part of being a good friend and a hero was making other people feel better when they were down and comforting them._

_"I'll have to go, Alfie… My house… my house was burned down yesterday. I came here to say goodbye," Arthur said breathlessly. "My siblings don't know. They'll probably come looking for me." Alfie's eyes widened. He had known that a house had been burned down, but when he asked his dad, the man refused to let Alfie know. That day, he also refused to let Alfie out of the house and continued to peek out of the window._

_"People I love… gone…"_

_"Gone?"_

_"I'll never see them again…"_

_"But how's that possible? You-you can always see people! All you have to do is call them! You'll see them again for sure!" Alfie said, looking puzzled and then smiling up at him brightly. Arthur smiled at him tiredly._

_"It's death, Alfie," he said. "People don't come back from death."_

_"B-but… how?"_

_Arthur inhaled sharply and decided to change the subject. "Yesterday, I went to your house… my siblings gave me some time to say goodbye but your father chased me away…"_

_Alfie nearly let go of his friend in shock. Was that the time when his father had carried him into the bedroom in the middle of the house (which had no windows), locked him in and went out? Alfie wondered what that was, although when he came back his dad merely said 'There was someone dangerous outside, but I chased him away.'_

_"You're not… you're not dangerous," Alfie said. "What?" Arthur asked, looking stricken. "My dad… Yesterday, he said that there was someone dangerous outside our house… You're not dangerous…" Arthur's eyes widened and he shoved Alfie away, fear in his green eyes._

_"Ow! Why did you-"_

_But Arthur was already sprinting away from him, and even as Alfie attempted to chase after him, Arthur only seemed to be gaining more and more speed, and again some sort of strange green glow seemed to emanate from him. Alfie slowed down when he felt himself tire. _

_Gasping for breath, his reached his hand out as if hoping to pull Arthur back to him. He closed it into a fist and lowered it, squeezing his eyes closed in frustration. His breath was shaky, part from the exhaustion and part from the shock of having his best friend push him away and then run from him._

_"I don't want to… never see you again…"_

* * *

England sat on the grass, looking up at the sky. The black blanket of a night sky was speckled with shimmering stars, and England let out a sigh before burying his head in his hands.

If they failed this time, who would be lost? Who would they have to sacrifice for a lost cause? He grimaced, his mind flying to motionless bodies and empty eyes, last whispers and dying wishes, blood and flesh exposed.

He groaned, trying to banish the images from his mind, but he couldn't and found himself neck-deep in agony. He could hear whispers of those he mourned, whispers of those long gone, and he closed his eyes for a moment and let a small sigh escape him. He opened his eyes, looked up and saw the stars, blinking down soothingly at him, and he wondered.

_Do my fallen friends roam the sky now?_

He imagined them walking, catching stars in their hands and setting them free, like fireflies. He imagined them riding the crescent moon like a glowing boat, and during the daytime, they walked on the clouds and painted rainbows in the sky. He imagined laughter, happiness, and the feeling of warm belonging, and he let himself fall on the grass, lying down.

_"Do you believe in heaven, England?"_

He let out a dry sob, and a soft lullaby filled his head, a piece of memory he wanted to revel in, to hear forever, and he was taken back to a time of lying comfortably in bed, sunshine streaming through the windows, sleeping until noon as a small child who did nothing but smile.

_"Hey, wake up, sleepyhead, the sun's up!"_

England closed his eyes, feeling memories cloud his head and blend with reality, and soon he drifted off, long-gone loved ones and forgotten lullabies embracing him in his dreams.


	5. Change is Inevitable

A/N: Filler/bridge-ish chapter? I'll put the next one up in a few days' time to make up for my five-day absence. ^_^

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter IV: Change is Inevitable (Or Fate Was Feeling Merciful)

"Morning, Mr. Jones," Belgium said as she walked in, grinning. She used her fingers to spray water on Alfred's face. "Wha- wha? It's four in the morning, Belgium, what the hell are you planning? And dude, don't grin like that, you're creeping me out," Alfred said.

She just giggled, and Alfred felt more fear. "Well, I'm here to help you redecorate your room, of course! Can't have you sleeping in this dump," she said as she eyed the room disdainfully.

"What do you mean? _You_ made this place," he said, and she just laughed. Alfred let out a sigh of relief. So Belgium was normal after all.

"I made it so bland 'cause you were a prisoner. Seriously, do you think I have tastes _this_ bad?" she said, gesturing and the room and Alfred sat there for a moment before her words registered in his mind. "Wait a minute, _were_? You mean I'm not a prisoner anymore?" he asked, feeling hope flutter in him. "I can go now?"

"No you're not anymore, idiot. But you can't just walk out, you still have to stay. The British Isles decided to give you a chance to change your mind about us. You're a guest now, apparently, bit of a moronic decision, really," Belgium answered nonchalantly. "So what do you want your room to look like?"

* * *

Being a 'guest' (more like a prisoner who was being treated more fairly) of the Chanters wasn't so bad, Alfred realized. In fact, it was pretty awesome. Alfred's room was just the way he wanted it to (except for some things Belgium decided to put, which Alfred couldn't remove, like little pink ponies on the corner of the wall, just to spite him) and everyone had at least stopped glaring at him whenever he passed. They didn't exactly seem too keen to reveal anything much to him either, all of them acting friendly but keeping him at an arm's length.

"Oi! Jones! You wanna go hunting?" Prussia called out as Alfred walked by. Saying yes enthusiastically, Alfred joined him. He was with two other people, the guy with the barrette and calm blue eyes, and another one Alfred didn't know, who had spiky hair and a big grin on his face. Alfred noticed that a small, yellow chick-like bird was sitting on Prussia's head.

"This is Denmark," Prussia said as he gestured at the spiky-haired guy. "And that's Norway," he said as he pointed at the one with the barrette. Denmark said 'Yo!' and Norway nodded his head, a greeting. Prussia then patted the bird on his head. "And this is Gil... Friederike!" Alfred noticed the slight hesitation but decided not to dwell on it (there was no point anyway; Prussia was the kind of person who was good at deflecting probing questions when he was prepared.)

"Here," Denmark said, the grin still on his face, tossing Alfred a bow. Norway handed him some arrows. "Wait, we're hunting with these things? What about guns?" Alfred asked with a frown. Norway shot him a mock frown back before his face went back to that neutral expression and he replied.

"Guns do a messy job," Norway said as he pulled on a pair of cuffs to avoid getting injured while handling the bow. "Besides, these are more fun and require more skill. What, you're too dumb to shoot an arrow?" "N-no, I'm not! I'm an ace at it!" Alfred said and grinned, even though he had no idea how to use a bow to shoot arrows. He held on to his quiver nervously behind his back, and thankfully no one noticed.

"Don't grin like that," Norway said. "You look like Denmark." Denmark gave him a playful shove for that, but Norway stood his ground, still with an emotionless look on his face. Denmark laughed at his friend's behavior and put his arm around his shoulder. Norway ignored him.

"Heh, Nor's always like this," Denmark explained as they walked. "Always making snide little comments to insult me. You'd think he doesn't like me." Norway snorted behind them, and Alfred had a feeling that Denmark was being somewhat dense.

"Those two," Prussia said and smirked as Norway flicked Denmark off casually, "are the most dysfunctional pair I've ever met, but they always stick together no matter what, for some reason."

"It's just that _he_ insists on following me all the time. I tell everyone I have a stalker, and they don't believe me. Look, Prussia! I have proof right here," Norway said, pointing at the tall blonde next to him. "Aww, don't be like that, Nor," Denmark said and put his arm around Norway's shoulder, having slowed down considerably so he could walk next to the smaller man. Norway ignored him.

"I'd say you and Hungary make up the weirdest pair in this place," Denmark remarked, and Prussia shook his head, smirking. "At least Hungary and me have something in common," he said. "He has a _very_ good point," Norway said.

"What about Russia and Chi-" Denmark said, but Norway cut him off by punching him in the gut, still with the frozen face. "What did you do that for?" Denmark wailed. "Don't talk about them like that, you know they don't know that we all know," Norway said through gritted teeth.

"Know what?" Alfred asked, curiosity peaking. Norway face-palmed. "If Russia ever finds out, I'm staying out of it," he said. "Hey, that's not fair!" Denmark said with a pout. Prussia chuckled. "Give it a rest, you two. Tell him already. He's gonna find out from Hungary soon enough anyway."

Norway put his hands up in surrender. "Whatever," he said. Denmark grinned. "Okay, Alfred, don't tell anyone, but we think that…" Denmark said, and then lowered his voice into a harsh whisper, but it was still quite audible. "Russia and China are a 'thing'!"

"Heh, a 'thing'," Prussia said. "You sound like Hungary, Den." Denmark shrugged. "What was I supposed to say? Besides, that's what Hungary said, and I don't know what a 'thing' was, thought it was some sort of girl slang or– Ow!" he cried out as Norway hit him upside the head. "Idiot," he hissed.

Alfred smiled. They reminded him vaguely of his friends back home, and maybe for a while, this would do. At least he wouldn't be alone.

* * *

Just like a cat who had the annoying instinct to get closer to people who don't like them, Alfred felt himself oddly drawn to the prospect of making friends with the one person who has still not shown signs of warming up to him yet, the so-called 'leader', England.

So at dinner that night, he chose to grab the seat next to England before anyone else could sit next to him. England scowled at this. "What in the world are you doing?" he hissed. Alfred gave him a crooked grin. "I'm sitting," he said.

"Don't sit here!" England said. "Why not? Is someone about to?" Alfred asked, and England growled in frustration. "Fine, do whatever you want, just don't disturb me."

Despite this, Alfred made multiple attempts at starting a conversation with him during dinner. "We don't talk while we eat," England had said angrily at Alfred's fifth attempt, but Alfred noticed that around the table, everyone was chatting animatedly with each other.

"So who cooks?" Alfred asked, his seventh attempt at a conversation. "China at dinner, Prussia at lunch, Switzerland at breakfast. That's what everyone voted on," England grumbled.

"And why's that?" Alfred said. "Because China's food is delicious, Switzerland makes great muesli, and Prussia always makes enough for seconds and thirds," England answered. "Scotland said so, although I can't imagine why they didn't choose me, my cooking is absolutely unforgettable."

"You're right, it _is_ unforgettable," Alfred said, suppressing a shudder. _But not in the good way_, he said in his mind. "What about desserts?"

"Desserts? You mean pudding? Belgium and Switzerland always try to outdo each other with chocolate dishes, and though Switzerland's are delicious, he's just a bit by-the-book. Belgium is a bit more adventurous," England said just as Belgium arrived with what appeared to be a quintuple-chocolate sundae with fresh raspberries and orange slices and… is that _fish roe_?

"Denmark bakes pastries for us for tea, and the Netherlands bakes these round cakes called poffertjes, which he serves with Belgium's chocolate ice cream," he continued.

Alfred nodded, and then asked, "So with all this food, where do you guys get the ingredients? I mean, you guys are isolated from the rest of the world, right?"

"Some of us who are not as well known as spellcasters, and do not have green eyes, such as Norway, China and Belarus, do our shopping for us. We give them our lists and they'll take care of it," England explained. "There are places to trade around, marketplaces, and most of us are good at not getting noticed. We also have traders we favor who we trust because we like their products or their prices are fair; we rely on relations and acquaintances to get good things at low prices."

"Oh," Alfred said. "So where'd you get the non-green-eyed residents? I though you Chan- guys were green-eyed from birth?" he asked. England glared at him. He seemed to have noticed Alfred's slip-up, and Alfred put his hands over his mouth quickly to show that he didn't mean it.

"Well, some of them by accident," England said. "The Blacksmith either took their parents while they were not there, so they were left quite alone, and our parents adopted them, or they joined us out of their own will to do so."

"People _want_ to join you?" Alfred asked with disbelief. "Don't act so bloody shocked," England said with a scowl. "Our lives are freer and more easygoing than the lives of your lot. Some of them have personal reasons, or they like the way things are done here."

"Oh, okay. What do you do all day, anyway?" Alfred asked. "We hunt. We learn, as there are schools for youngsters where math, languages and all those other subjects are taught. We also perfect our magic, we talk to each other and make sure no silly non-magical people barge in, like you," England answered. And then he stopped and seemed to realize something. "Blimey, why am I talking to you? Stop asking so many questions and eat your pudding already!"

England ignored him for the rest of the meal, but Alfred couldn't help feeling like he had accomplished something. The conversation may be about food, but it was alright for a start.


	6. Scrounging for Stars

A/N: I can't believe I nearly forgot to put this up. Argh, I'm so, so sorry!

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter V: Scrounging for Stars

When they had called people to assemble a search party to search for his brother, Matthew immediately volunteered. He, along with a young man called Toris and a girl called Meimei would be in one squad, his friends Feliciano, Kiku and Antonio in another.

Toris Lorinaitis was green-eyed, meaning that he was born of Chanter descent, but when his parent disappeared shortly after he was born, and he was found by a man who had another son, Eduard von Bock. Several years later, the same man found a slightly mentally wrecked six-year-old boy, having seen so many horrors when his village was destroyed by a group of Chanters. Toris was raised with no magical influence whatsoever.

Honda Meimei was a smart and sensible girl, when she wasn't worrying her head off. She and her family, which consisted of her and three older brothers, one adoptive. They were Michael, Kiku, and... one more whose name no one ever said anymore. After he had tried to take them with him when he joined the Chanters, their adoptive brother, Honda Kiku, bravely helped them escape. Since then, both Michael and Meimei had adopted Kiku's last name, wishing to cut all ties they had to their eldest brother.

A few months after they were born, Matthew and Alfred's parents divorced, their father taking Alfred and raising him, while their mother raised Matthew. They were united at the Separation, although they were very young then, so they both felt like they have never been separated at all.

They started searching eight days ago, and so far there were no signs of Alfred. Matthew had begun to seriously worry for him, because he knew just how reckless he was, and he would (as anyone) get in serious trouble if he met the Chanters.

_But searches that lasted more than a week long usually meant that they were… _

No, that wasn't possible. Alfred may get in serious trouble, but he wasn't dead. He didn't just _die_ like that. Matthew knew this for a fact.

"Are you okay, Matvey?" a voice said beside him. He turned to see Yekaterina, a woman whose siblings had left her to join the Chanters a few years ago, also Matthew's good friend. He forced a smile. "It's all good, I'm fine," he replied. She looked doubtful but left to get herself some lunch anyway.

He sighed and picked at his lunch. So far, he had no appetite, and the food, although it was delicious fettuccine courtesy of Feliciano Vargas, tasted like cardboard to him. Someone sat next to him, and Matthew mumbled a small 'Hi'.

"So… 'ow is the search party faring?" asked the person, and Matthew looked up to see Francis Bonnefoy, his friend who was a bit creepy (he stalked people, groped them, was a sex maniac) but could be a great one to have in times of need.

"No luck… We just have to try harder, eh?" Matthew said with a small smile. "Do not be afraid, Mathieu, 'e will be fine," Francis said and winked. Matthew nodded numbly, hoping that Francis knew what he was saying.

'Mathieu' and 'Matvey', Francis and Yekaterina's ways of pronouncing his name, didn't annoy him at all anymore. Matthew had given up on getting people to pronounce his name right years ago. Somehow, they always managed to get Alfred's right. To make matters worse, they often _confused_ him for Alfred, which was still quite annoying to this day.

"Yes, Meteiyuu-san, he will be fine. He does not give up at times of danger," Honda Kiku, a somewhat eerily calm young man, said as he sat next to him. He butchered Matthew's name very thoroughly, but Matthew could understand. His native language was very different from English, after all.

Matthew felt like he was turning into Meimei, with all this worrying he was doing. He couldn't even sleep at night anymore! It was rational, he convinced himself. Anyone would be worried out of his or her mind if their brother suddenly went for a walk and disappeared.

Wasn't this what happened to Meimei? Her brother, Yao, had gone for a walk and didn't come back, and when she, Kiku and Michael had tried to look for him, he tried to turn them into Chanters, and after several weeks, they finally fought their way to freedom.

Matthew shuddered and hoped with all his heart that Alfred wouldn't become a Chanter. Somehow it seemed impossible; Alfred was always going on about how the Chanters were villains and he was the hero and he would defeat all of them.

The place was full of people whose siblings had betrayed them and strayed to the 'dark' side. Ludwig, a direct descendant of the Blacksmith, lost his older brother that way, but he never wanted to talk about it. Meimei, Kiku and Michael had lost their older brother as well.

Yekaterina lost both of her younger siblings, and she still cried about it, mumbling about her 'sweet, sweet Ivan' and her 'beautiful Natalya'. From what he knew of them, Ivan was anything but sweet, and Natalya was beautiful but quite fearsome.

Matthew sincerely hoped that he wouldn't become one of them. Knowing that your sibling had gone over to the side whose people you have to kill was the worst feeling in the world, because you know that you'd have to kill them sooner or later.

"Please eat your food, Meteiyuu-san, you'll get sick later on," Kiku said, and Matthew was taken back to reality. He began eating his pasta automatically, not tasting it, just chewing and swallowing.

There was the bitter taste of fear and worry in his mouth.

* * *

Toris rang the doorbell. "Feliks!" He rang it again. Again. Again. And again. Why was his friend so lazy? Argh, Toris didn't even know why he put up with Feliks. Maybe it was something about the fact that the blonde's presence was comforting in a way, some sort of odd understanding in those green eyes he couldn't find anywhere else. He was about to scream at the door when the door opened and a young man with blond hair and green eyes opened the door.

"What _is_ it? I totally need my beauty sleep," Poland said testily, but Toris ignored him and entered the room anyway. "What, did you, like, get a postcard from your dad again?"

Toris looked at him. "No, but you know Mr. Jones has been missing? I think that Russia and the others have found him. I want to confirm that and how he's doing," he said. Feliks eyes widened. "That means we have to like, send a postcard to _him_!"

"Yes, Poland," Toris said, switching to the codename. "We haven't done it in a long time, but I think I still remember how. I'm just scared that it won't make it there."

"Relax, Liet," Feliks said with a smile. "It will. I'm still pretty sharp, like, I still remember how to write it." Toris nodded nervously. "But you're like, in charge of the disguising, 'kay? 'Cause I totally hate doing that. Eugh," Feliks said, making a face as if he had just seen a serious crime against fashion.

"I need some paper to write on, duh," Feliks said as he rolled his eyes. "Gawd, Liet, can you _be_ any slower?" Felisk said this teasingly, and Toris glared at his friend but got him a postcard anyway. "Give me that," the fashionable young man said and grabbed the postcard.

Feliks took out a wand and started using it to write on the postcard, his green eyes slightly glowing. "You still remember how to read this stuff, right?" he asked as he wrote the message. "'Cause I'm so not translating it for you anymore." "I can still read," Toris said, looking slightly annoyed. "I just don't really remember how to write." Feliks nodded at him and then lifted his wand and waved it again for a flourishing finish. "Sure, yeah, yeah. Well, I'm done!" he said and waved the postcard in the air. Toris waited until his friend handed it to him and then used his own wand to write another message over the real one to disguise it.

"I don't get why we have to use these sticks to write," Feliks whined. Toris shrugged. "I've tried using my finger, for some reason a lot of words are misspelled and the meaning changes. I guess the writing spell needs you to focus your power more," he said.

"'Kay, so now we need someone to like, deliver it, right?" Feliks said. He opened their window and wrote something in the air with his wand, and then blew it and it dissolved in the wind. "But I like that when the wand does that, it's so pretty."

In a few seconds pink lights appeared in front of him. "Don't you think these uniforms are so eww?" he asked them, and a chirping noise was his replybut stopped chattering when Toris shot him a look. "Here," he said, handing the postcard over to Feliks, who in turn handed it to the pink lights. "Get this to that creepy weirdo Russia, 'kay? He's the one with no fashion sense," he explained. "That scarf is _so_ last _decade_." Toris blanched. "Don't tell Russia he said that," he cut in. "Just deliver it to him, okay?"

In a flash, the pink lights were gone, and Toris sat down, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. He closed his eyes, wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a sigh of relief. "Sheesh, Liet, why are you so tense?" Feliks asked. "There's nothing to worry about!"

"It's just… We're… I don't know, but it scares me. This whole thing. After so many years, the fear of getting caught is setting in," he answered, feeling his throat go dry. "You're not going to get caught," Feliks said, surprisingly softly. "We've been doing this for so long, and we can totally do this. Stop worrying so much, Liet. You're going to like, get gray hairs! That totally doesn't go with your eyes!"

Toris sighed, got up, and said goodbye to his friend before departing from the room. Feliks watched him go, hearing Toris mutter things under his breath, but couldn't quite make them out, only that they sounded a little fearful.

"Gawd, lighten up, Liet," he whispered to himself. "If that anyone tries to go harm you, I'm going Tyra Banks on his sorry butt."


	7. A Change of Heart

A/N: I'm so sorry for not updating this for so long! School has started and I'm getting adjusted... also, there's this whole no computer on weekdays rule that I have to go by. :'(

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter VI: Change of Heart

After his first successful attempt at starting a conversation with the uptight blond, Alfred had determinedly tried his best to talk to England a bit more.

"Why're you so determined on making friends with England?" Prussia asked one day, when he, Alfred and Belgium were out drinking hot chocolate Switzerland made (Belgium was criticizing them every four minutes).

"'Cause he doesn't like me, that's why," Alfred said. "Everyone has to like me. I'm awesome."

"No you're not dude, don't lie," Belgium said in a singsong voice. "No you're not," Prussia protested. "_I_'m awesome." "You drive around in your mom's ride," Belgium said.

Prussia shot her a look. "Quit it with that song already." She stuck her tongue out at him, and then spilled some of her chocolate on Prussia's socks. "Ha!" she said triumphantly.

Prussia growled good-naturedly. "I'm gonna get you in your sleep, just you wait." Belgium feigned an expression of shock and fear. "Help! A stalker rapist! Eeek!" she said, and Prussia and socked her on the arm. "You're turning into Hungary!"

"You know, with the way this is going, I'm beginning to forget all the stuff they taught me about you guys being cruel and all that," Alfred said. Prussia stopped pulling Belgium's hair and turned his head, smirking.

"Heh, really? Good for you, kid. You're starting to see the light. I knew my awesome would get to you sometime," Prussia said with a grin.

"We really sound that terrible?" Belgium asked, looking curious. "There was this bedtime story my dad used to tell me," Alfred said. "About this village and a newsboy…"

Alfred was about to launch into a story when Belgium held out her hand in front of him to stop him. "Prussia, you gonna be alright?" she asked softly, putting her other hand on her friend's shoulder. Prussia nodded his head. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," Belgium said. "Go ahead, 'Fred."

_"Once upon a time, there was a hardworking newsboy in a small village. He delivered papers every day and everyone depended on him for their news," Mr. Jones said._

_ "The Chanters were cruel people who liked to kill people for fun. Whenever a group was headed anywhere, the news always reported sightings nearby, and everybody depended on the news to survive. The newsboy knew how important this was, so he was always on time and on the job. He never slacked off._

_"One time, the newsboy got sick and couldn't deliver the paper, and no one else wanted the job," Mr. Jones continued. "So the village folk didn't hear that there were Chanter sightings very nearby just a few days ago."_

_"And then what happened?" Alfred asked, his eyes wide as the moon._

_"Well, the Chanters came and killed many of the village people. When he heard this, the newsboy, who was still recovering from his sickness, got angry with himself for not warning the people. So he grabbed his dad's gun and went outside. He saw the Chanters wreaking havoc and torturing the people, laughing and cackling like the devils they were. Some of them were spinning the people in the air, some were making them bend their bodies in ways that weren't supposed to be possible, and some of the people were screaming and twitching in pain even though the Chanters weren't touching them. He couldn't take it anymore and had to help them._

_"He rushed at every Chanter and shot every one of them he could find before they could do anything to him. He saved the villagers and took them to safer places. Many of the Chanters died and they fled the village in terror of this newsboy with a gun who could kill so many Chanters single-handed. The newsboy was regarded as a hero by the townspeople," M.r Jones finished._

_Alfred looked up, his eyes filled with wonder. "He was a hero?" he asked. His father chucked. "Yeah, kiddo. He served justice when needed, that's what heroes do." "I wanna be a hero too!" Alfred said. "You can be," his father said. "You just need to trust in what is right in your heart."_

"They used to tell stories like that?" Belgium said, feeling her stomach churn. Exaggeration. People exaggerate. _Too much, sometimes_,she thought. "They still do," Alfred said quietly. Prussia was avoiding their gazes pointedly. "They make us out to be savages, don't they? I'm not surprised all of you are out to do us in," Belgium said, shaking her head.

"Hey, Prussia?" she said softly. "You okay there? Need me to fetch Hungary or somethin'?"

Prussia got up. "No, I'll just… I'll just go to her myself," he said and walked off. "What's with him?" Alfred asked. Belgium shrugged her shoulders. "It's a touchy subject for him, what you guys think of us. But it's okay, he deals with it fine. He always tells us it's okay to talk 'bout it."

A shadow of doubt crossed her face, but Alfred chose to ignore it. Why was everyone here such a mystery?

* * *

When Alfred saw England again, he hurried to catch up with him. "Hey! England!" England turned his head. "What d'you want?"

"Eh, I was hoping you could explain to me about… y'know, the whole hearing and seeing things everyone keep talking about, how they say I can't see or stuff," Alfred said.

"Fine, fine, I suppose you won't go away until I answer," England said. "There are two main types of magic. One, we channel our power to our fingers, a wand or a staff or any other magical instrument and write our spells in the air with it. You have to be able to See, with a capitalized 's', to see it. Most of you lot, who can't do magic, can't See."

But you can Hear, all of you can. We used to chant our spells. Whenever we did, our voices would sound exceptionally loud, allowing you to quickly locate us. That's why you call us Chanters, because that's the only form of magic you can sense. So we had to settle with writing, which isn't as fast but better if we want to survive."

"What? Why don't you chant anymore?" Alfred asked. England growled in frustration. "Bright one, aren't you?" England said. Alfred shrugged.

"Yeah, inviting your lot for a party by chanting sounds like a brilliant idea," England said sarcastically. "Didn't you hear me, you prat? I said you can locate us when we chant, and when you locate us you tend to kill us, and we prefer to not be killed, thank you very much."

After saying this, England briskly walked away towards a large, looming black house in the distance before Alfred could ask any more questions.

* * *

After this, Alfred walked away in a huff, feeling that England was being unfair; after all, it was just an innocent question! What reason did he have for being so damn grumpy, anyway? No one could go on that long without smiling, really.

Deciding that what was best for him was an afternoon nap (he usually never took naps; he was always out doing something heroic but seeing that he had nothing to do here, he might as well use a quick nap), he trudged back to his room.

When he threw himself on the bed (it was so springy, Alfred felt the urge to jump on it, but he knew that it would make a noise that people outside wouldn't appreciate), Alfred found himself wondering again why England looked so familiar.

The green eyes and eyebrows made something in the back of his mind go _click_, but he wasn't sure just _what_. But Alfred decided that it wasn't important enough as of the moment and he was surely boring himself from staying too still; if he didn't fall asleep soon the urge to jump on the bed would conquer him and he would have to do so.

* * *

That day, Alfred spent most of the day getting to know the other people. He met children, repeating words and learning sentence structures, debating over the result of two plus two. Their innocent laughter and chirping voices washed the burden of life away for a moment, and Alfred wondered why people couldn't stay children forever.

"I wanted to stay like them longer too," a soft but unfeeling voice said next to him. Alfred nearly jumped.

When he looked up, he met violet-colored eyes, clouded with confusion and desire and regret, and Alfred backed away as Russia closed those violet eyes. "I have a sister, back where you came from," he said. His voice was chilly, like winter winds and snowy mornings.

"She is still my sister, even though she would not come with me," he said slowly again, and Alfred could feel a wave of pity silencing him. "I do not know if that is a good thing, but she is my sister, and I still feel for her as her brother."

Russia looked away wistfully, his eyes locked onto someplace faraway. As if sensing this, the wind blew in a certain direction so that his scarf fanned out next to him. "I will have to fight her sometime. I will have to," he repeated, and Alfred could sense that all the warmth that was there before had melted away, no, frozen, and that voice was colder than a snowy morning now; a winter wasteland, perhaps.

There was a mixture of pity and slight fear in the back of Alfred's mind, but he shooed it away. Fear did not belong in Alfred F. Jones's mind. He had shut that out long ago. Shut it out in favor of warmth and sunlight and justice and freedom and happiness.

_Matthew._

There it was again. Fear. Alfred quickly blocked it with thoughts of laughter, of light and smiles and childish moments of innocence. Fear did not belong in a hero's mind. Courage did.

"Russia?"

Someone else had joined them, and Alfred saw that the man looked only a little older than him, his face aglow and free of wrinkles, hair jet-black and free of grey hairs, but there was some sort of old wisdom deep in his eyes that struck one word in Alfred's mind. _Old_.

"Ah, it's you," the newcomer said with a calm smile. "You must have heard of me from everybody else, but I'm pleased to have met you myself, Alfred Jones. I am China," he said, and bowed slightly. Alfred smiled back. "Well, you know my name already, so yeah. Do you hang around a lot with Russia?" he asked gesturing at the still-smiling man.

"Yes," China said. "He needs a little sunlight in his life, do you not agree?" This he said a little more quietly, and Russia was beginning to hum a song, jittery and carefree. "But that is not the only reason I 'hang around' him," the brown-eyed man said.

"Inside, he can show you kindness like no other. There is ice around him, but if you know how to find it, it will give way to warmth," China said, and that old wisdom rang again in his voice. Alfred was beginning to wonder just how old he was.

"China, we have been watching the children learn. Someday they will be like us, da?" Russia said, and that smile almost reached his eyes. Almost.

China smiled back at his friend. "Hopefully they will have more carefree lives," he said. "Hopefully they will remain with their families for as long as they live." Russia nodded at this. "I'd like to bring my sister back to me, too. Do you think it would be a good idea to make the world one big family?"

Russia took China's hand, and both of them turned around and walked, discussing something in soft voice and chuckles and giggles, and Alfred felt something hang in the air, as if the two had left something behind, a message he was supposed to read.

_Broken,_ the wind whispered. _We are broken, and yet here we stand._

* * *

That night at dinner, they had more hot chocolate, and Alfred couldn't sit next to England because Hungary and the Netherlands had already beat him to it, so he sat next to Belgium instead, who was making a face at her mug of chocolate.

"What's wrong with your chocolate?" Alfred asked. "Swtizerland made it," Belgium answered disdainfully. "Mine is much better, but he insisted. Had a gun in his hand and all that, I mean, not like it was loaded, but you really can't blame me for getting scared. He's sorta scary."

Alfred chortled. "Scared of him, are you?" "Not so much. Only when he's carrying his gun," Belgium said. _Which is all the time_, she thought, but decided not to tell Alfred that.

He looked across the table, where England was sitting. He seemed to be talking to Hungary about something, both of them looking quite serious.

Alfred noticed that even as he talked to Hungary and the Netherlands, England's face was still fixed in a frown. He stared at him, willing his expression to change, but it didn't.

"Why the _hell_ are you staring at England?" Belgium asked beside him. "Got a crush on him or something? I never thought he was your type." "No way," Alfred said, placing a shocked look on his face. Belgium laughed at his expression. "Relax, I'm just kidding. But why _are_ you staring anyway? Studying the anatomy of his face or somethin'?"

"He frowns too much!" Alfred said fretfully. "Does he always look so unhappy?"

"Yeah, that's England for you," Belgium replied with a shrug, and Alfred frowned deep enough to match England's. "Jeez," he muttered. "I hate people who are so selfish they can't smile for themselves, let alone the world."

He took a long good sip of the hot chocolate. Belgium stared determinedly at hers, and then took it and began trying to down it all in one sitting. Alfred put his mug down, while Belgium was still drinking with a slightly disdainful look on her face.

"Seriously," Alfred said in frustration. "I'm sick at looking at him scowl all the time! Doesn't he ever _smile_ or laugh or something?"

Belgium promptly snorted into her hot chocolate.


	8. Unbroken Connection

A/N: Ah, I noticed the original 7th chapter _was _a bit filler-y, so I hope that this picks the pace up a bit. If you're Canadian, please correct my usage of 'eh'.

DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own APH, so this thing is a bit useless.

* * *

Chapter VII: Unbroken Connection

If there was one place Alfred was curious about, it was the big black house England so often visited. The Netherlands, Belgium, the British Isles siblings and other people visited it a lot too, but England went there _every day_.

So one day, as England was walking there, carrying a bouquet of roses, Alfred followed him stealthily (thank goodness, his training paid off). After England went inside, Alfred decided to wait a bit before going in. One, two, three, four minutes? He opened the door and tentatively stepped inside. England was just rising from his seat, but looked at Alfred with a disapproving, surprised expression on his face. "What're you _doing_ here?"

"I was curious," Alfred said and glanced at the ceiling. It was all black, except for one skylight in the middle. Torches lit the room on the walls. Looking around, he saw that there were wooden boxes, no, caskets, in several rows, on each of them a photo of a person. He glanced at them fleetingly; there were so many people, so many happy faces… It scared him. Had these faces been smiling one day, and then had their eyes closed forever the next?

"An indoor graveyard, huh?" he mumbled. "So what are you doing here?" "None of your business," England said briskly. "I'll be off now. You should get out."

Alfred decided to stay silent but shook his head, feeling that arguing with England here wouldn't be proper. England said a gruff 'fine' and walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving Alfred alone among the dead.

For a moment, Alfred stood there, taking in the light of the fire. He noticed that instead of the normally orange-red color of fire, the fire here was white, giving the room some sort of a beautifully mystical appearance.

There were graves and graves and graves. Alfred walked among them, noticing that each one of them had a white rose on the casket, freshly put. He then remembered that England had a bouquet of roses with him when he came in, and he wondered why he bothered to put all these roses on the graves.

Finally, he came upon one that was different. It was the grave England was sitting next to when Alfred came in. On it wasn't a white rose, but a red one, red like rubies and blood. There was a picture of a smiling young man with tanned skin and dark hair, green eyes lit up with his smile.

Underneath, in neat handwriting, was written the name _Gabriel_ _'Portugal' Cabral_.

* * *

They had stopped searching now.

No matter how much it hurt, they had thought his brother dead and stopped searching. No more search parties, no more nighttime journeys into the forest, calling out his name.

Matthew cried the day they disbanded the search parties.

_That's not fair_, he thought, _that's_ _not fair at all. Why do we have to give up now? Alfred wouldn't,_ _he wouldn't give up._

Every day, Toris would come into his room and try to comfort him, and told Matthew that Alfred was fine, that he would be back soon, that he wasn't suffering or dead or in pain. He was the only one willing to talk about Alfred now, because the others usually avoided the subject, as they were all quite fond of him as well.

At mealtimes, Matthew would be quieter than usual, and that was amzing as Matthew was nearly mute most of the time, and he would eat very little. He didn't have to make breakfast anymore, because everyone felt sorry for him. Breakfast was now some sort of Japanese sticky cake that Kiku made, but Matthew couldn't taste anything on his tongue now.

He was torn between two things. The first one was to believe and accept that his brother was _dead_ as all evidence leads to that conclusion, and the second one to believe that he was still alive and was fighting to get home.

Matthew wanted to believe in the second one, of course he did. But it was hard. It was hard when everyone treated him as if the first option was the truth. It was hard when they've been searching for Alfred for what… nineteen days? Ludwig had allowed them to search for him longer than usual because he, too, liked America's spirit, no matter how much he hid it.

But now, Matthew would often sneak out in the dark, feet meeting forest floor just as Alfred's had before he was captured (that, Matthew didn't know, but he felt it, as if he could feel that Alfred had once been here).

He would often try so hard to find little clues, little signs that his brother was still alive, quietly searching in the dark.

That night, as the moon let little slivers of light pass through the leaves, Matthew stood in the dark, his eyes closed, thinking of his brother.

* * *

After Alfred had determinedly dogged him almost everywhere he went, England was starting to show signs of warming up to him. He didn't seem so snappish anymore (although his temper was as bad as ever) and he didn't seem all that eager to end their conversations anymore, either. He was actually a pretty awesome person to talk too.

And one of the things Alfred liked most was that sometimes _he_ sat next to Alfred, instead of Alfred trying to sit next to him. Like this morning, for example.

When England sat next to him at breakfast, Alfred was glumly stirring his muesli, sighing. His eyes were downcast and he didn't seem as bright as usual, although the others have noticed that now this happened sometimes. Both Belgium and Prussia have been asking him about it, and although he knew they wouldn't tease him or anything, he didn't feel like telling them. He didn't know just how seriously they would take it.

"Is there something wrong?" England asked. Alfred shook his head. "No, I'm just tired. Didn't get that much sleep tonight." England scoffed. "Don't lie," he said. "I can tell when something is wrong, especially when it's _that_ obvious. You're not eating your breakfast. Usually you scarf it down so quickly I mistake you for a bear."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "You've been looking at my eating habits?" England snorted. "It's quite hard _not_ to when you're usually the noisiest one at the table," he said.

"But I really haven't been sleeping well," Alfred said. "I think I noticed that when you started banging on Prussia's door at two in the morning," England said dryly, a very flat, very sarcastic expression on his face. Alfred looked away sheepishly. "That… well, um…" he muttered. "Ithoughtamonsterwasundermybed."

England decided to ignore this. Alfred's childish delusions were none of his business.

"What's wrong, then?" England asked again, and Alfred sighed. "I told you, I'm just not getting enough- oh, screw it. I miss Mattie," he said.

"Mattie?" England said. "Yeah," Alfred replied. "He's my brother. He always knows how to cheer me up and stuff, y'know? Nobody every notices him, though, and that's really sad, 'cause he's this really great guy and he deserves more attention."

England nodded sympathetically. "D'you want to talk to him?" "Are you serious?" Alfred said, and he grinned. "You can do that?" England merely looked annoyed. "'Course I can, you idiot, I can do magic." Alfred stopped grinning.

"Right, I forgot," (England nearly punched his nose at this blatant display of utter idiocy) Alfred said. "So what do I need to do?"

England clicked his tongue. "Well, you just have to be absolutely sure about his exact location and you can't touch the screen. But don't tell him you're treated well here, he'll think you're a traitor," he said.

"I can't tell him that I'm doing fine?" Alfred said. "But what if he get's worried out of his mind?" Again, England merely looked annoyed. "He'll be worried either way. He'll probably ask someone to try and track your location, though. Ask him to try to track you. That'll make it sound real," he said.

"And pretend you're being held prisoner," England said again. Alfred nodded. "But what if they succeed on tracking me down? Not like I don't wanna go home or anything, but you guys are gonna get your asses kicked," he said. "I mean, Mattie's not much of a fighter, but he somehow manages to…" England rubbed his temples. "We'll see who your brother calls. If it's just one of ours, then it will be fine," England said. His expression darkened after that. "But if it's someone who is not one of ours, then…"

"You mean there are people who have actually betrayed you guys? I thought you said…" Alfred said. "Of course, but now is not the proper time to talk about it. D'you want to talk to your brother or not?" England asked, as if he was all too eager to avoid the topic. Alfred, in the euphoria of being able to talk to Matthew again, nodded vigorously, not noticing England's tone of voice.

"He's always in his room at night, so I think that's the best time to talk to him," Alfred said. "Alright, then," England said. "Tonight?"

Alfred quickly scarfed down his muesli, making munching noises.

"Yes," England grumbled. "It's quite hard to _not_ notice your eating habits."

* * *

That night, as Matthew was lying in his bed (there's no use, he won't be able to sleep, anyway), he thought of giving up. Maybe they were all right. Maybe the Chanters have gotten their hands on him and…

It was too horrible to think about.

They couldn't have done anything bad to him, of course not, Alfred was too tough for that… And then he remembered, he remembered Yekaterina's brother and sister, Ludwig's brother, Kiku's… They had all left. Nobody ever expected them to, because they were always the ones who seemed to hate the Chanters the most.

Alfred hated them a lot, too. What if… What if… No, Matthew couldn't think about that. He _couldn't_. Alfred wouldn't join them if his life depended on it.

Just as Matthew was about to close his eyes to try and get some sleep again, a glow lit the corner of his room. Hastily, he sat up and put his glasses on, approaching it, and he grabbed the rifle he kept on his bedside table (he didn't want to at first, but Alfred had insisted, saying that if _those dirty Chanters take one step into our room, the first thing we do is boom! Headshot!_). It was what appeared to be a circular gray window.

And then he saw Alfred's face.

"Mattie!" Alfred said, and Matthew looked at him in disbelief. "A-Al? You're alright?" he asked, panicking. _What have those people done to my brother did they torture him did they kill him already was this pre-recorded oh Alfred oh Alfred…_

"Well, not exactly, they're keeping me prisoner but so far no torture," Alfred said with a thumbs-up. Matthew sighed with relief. "Can you track my location, Mattie? They gave me some time to talk to you, for some reason, and I want to make use of this time to… You know, make an escape plan and stuff, and you can send some people to be my back up…"

"Of course, eh," Matthew said and stood up. "Wait here, I'll call Toris."

On the other side of the line, Alfred was stood there, and turned his head, looking at England with amazement. "It worked! It really did! I'm talking to Mattie!" England rolled his eyes. "Of course it did. It's _magic_."

"What else is?" Alfred asked. "Hey, what's up with those… those flickering green symbol thingies around the screen?" England's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open in shock. "You can see them?" he asked, looking absolutely flabbergasted. "Y-you really can see them?"

"Well, they flicker and they're not too clear and stuff, but yeah, I can see them," Alfred said. "Bloody hell, Alfred, I think you're starting to See."

"Seriously?" Alfred asked enthusiastically, looking like a child who had just been given candy. "Well, Belgium and Prussia have been doing magic around me so-"

"Ssh!" England hissed as he saw Toris enter the room, looking flustered. "Well, umm… my magic is a bit rusty, Mr. Williams… I was never raised as a Chanter, as you know my adoptive father was not a magic user…" he said.

"But you can still do some magic, right?" Matthew asked. "Please, Toris?"

Toris nodded. "I'll try my best. I may have to Chant, though… I am afraid that will wake people up," he said. "I'll explain," Matthew said. He wasn't usually this stubborn, but this may be his only chance of getting his brother back. Matthew was willing to take it.

"I-if you insist," Toris said. "Ah, hello, Mr. Jones, are you doing alright?" Alfred shrugged. "Well, I'm not hurt too badly or anything so… yeah, I guess I'm doing fine," he said, and shot Toris a look. Toris's green eyes glowed for a moment as if in understanding, although Alfred wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or not.

Toris put his hand in front of the screen, as if to pull something from it. He held it in his hands, and Alfred could see he was holding a faint green sphere. He then began to chant.

The voice was eerie, echoing off the walls and Alfred could hear it from where he stood, and it made him shiver, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him. He never knew that chanting could be this frightening, and Toris was reciting something in a strange language…

The door burst open. A young man, with green eyes and mussed brown hair burst inside. England's eyes flashed as he saw him, and he quickly pulled Alfred down.

"What the-"

Matthew watched in horror as a green flash lit the screen, and then it was gone. He was only staring at the corner of his room now. The green sphere in Toris's hands dissolved. The newcomer looked alarmed. "Who has been chanting?" he asked. "I'm surprised no one else woke up…"

"I… I was trying to track Mr. Jones's location, Mr. Carriedo," Toris said, eyeing Antonio fearfully. "Y-you saw him?" Antonio asked. "Did you talk to him?" Matthew nodded, his eyes unfocused. In his mind, the scene just a few seconds before was being replayed in his mind again and again. Alfred being pulled down… the green flash… the screen dissolving…

Antonio walked inside to comfort Matthew when he looked at Toris. "Wait, you were trying to track Alfred, weren't you? There was a portal he used to talk to you?" Toris nodded. "Then…" Antonio took one of Toris's hands, as if to inspect it. His face twisted into a grim look.

"I know this magic," he said, in thickly accented English. "I haven't seen it, sensed it or heard it in five years, but I know this magic." Matthew looked astonished. "Y-you do, eh?"

"Si," Antonio said.

"This magic belongs to a descendant of the King."


End file.
